


Dearest

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Because Buddy Holly is amazing, Fluff, Lestrade is a Mobile Phone Romeo, M/M, Mild Language, Mycroft has bad days too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:14:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a business trip, Mycroft receives an interesting voicemail message.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Million Miles Away

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to "Dearest" by Buddy Holly the other day and it struck me that having a relationship where one of you is far away some of the time can be difficult. The song really just screamed Mystrade to me, so I had to write this little thing.

Mycroft gently eased himself into the armchair in his hotel suite, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbing his temples. He’d taken the paracetamol he’d retrieved from the medicine cabinet and downed half the room temperature glass of water, leaving the rest of it to sit on the tabletop. Dealing with foreign leaders was trying at best; more-so when one developed a migraine halfway through negotiations. Excusing himself even briefly had been out of the question, but the hours that had passed since the migraine had first developed meant that he was currently experiencing a pain that radiated from his skull down his spine. It wasn’t often that he developed headaches of this magnitude, but the fact that he had not slept since his arrival three days prior coupled with a lack of respite from his work and a failure to take in anything more substantial than a few cups of tea and some biscuits meant that he should have expected it.

He leaned back in the seat with his eyes shut tight and reached out blindly to turn out the lamp on the table beside him. A few minutes in darkness and the paracetamol should do its work. He would just close his eyes for a moment while he waited.

A moment, he found when he opened his eyes next, had come and gone very quickly. As had the three hours after it. An annoyed sigh passed his lips—he truly hadn’t meant to sleep. The moonlight filtering in through the window provided enough light, so he decided against turning the lamp on. Although his migraine had mostly retreated, there was still a hint of paint at the base of his skull, and so the natural light was quite enough for him. A blanket had somehow migrated from the closet to his person—Anthea, he knew—and he was content to sit for a time huddled beneath it.

It was the blinking light on his mobile that eventually drew his attention. Reluctantly, he reached for it on the table. No doubt another message in regards to the negotiations settled a few hours prior. Keying in his password, he pressed the mobile to his ear and waited for the solitary voicemail message to play.

He was greeted, not by the voice of a bureaucrat seeking additional conference, but by the sound of a guitar. He frowned, the last cobwebs of slumber making his mind sluggish, until a familiar voice filtered through the mobile. The voice was a low rumble, just as it always was, though it was smoother under the influence of the melody, sung softly into the receiver. He held the device close, suddenly wishing the man on the other end of it was in his arms and feeling a pang of loneliness when he remembered it would be another two days yet. Instead, he clung to the words, to the sincerity in them.

 _“Dearest, though you're the nearest to my heart_

 _Please don't ever, mmyeah_

 _Ever say we'll part_

 _You scold and you were so bold_

 _Yes together, mmyeah_

 _Our love will grow old, mmyeah_

 _Our love will grow old_

 _You may be a million miles away_

 _Please believe me, mmyeah_

 _When you hear me say_

 _I love you, I love you_

 _Come home, keep me from these sleepless nights_

 _Try my love again, mmyeah_

 _I'm gonna treat you right, mmyeah_

 _I'm gonna tr—“_

The singing and the soft melody of the guitar came to an abrupt end with the noise of a door being thrown open, the audible sound of a guitar string snapping, and a loud curse.

 _“Sherlock! What in the_ hell _do you think you’re doing?”_

 _“It’s well after five and you’re the only one here, so you assumed you wouldn’t be caught doing this. You were singing. Into your mobile. Who were you singing to?”_

 _“God, I’m sorry Greg, I tried to stop him and he—“_

 _“It’s fine, John, I understand. And it’s none of your damn business, Sherlock.”_

 _“Oh_ no _.”_

 _“What? WHAT?”_

 _“Please tell me you aren’t.”_

 _“Aren’t what?”_

 _“You_ are _.”_

 _“Would you kindly explain what you’re on about before I kick you out of my office? Which I plan to do momentarily regardless, mind you.”_

 _“It’s Mycroft. You’re singing love songs into your mobile to_ my brother _.”_

Mycroft took a moment to appreciate the absolutely horrified tone of voice his younger brother had adopted. Well, it certainly served him right.

 _“Sherlock for Christ’s sake, leave the man alone!”_

Ah, John. Always the voice of reason.

 _“Why am I the only one who sees how very_ wrong _this is?”_

 _“Sherlock.”_

 _“Lestrade. And my brother. Lestrade, your standards have never been very high to begin with, but to lower them to Mycroft of all people…”_

 _“SHERLOCK.”_

 _“Please tell me you haven’t consummated your relationship with him yet. You have. And you’re still with him? Your standards have dropped even further than I’d assumed.”_

 _“SHERLOCK GET OUT OF MY OFFICE BEFORE I RAM THIS BLOODY GUITAR STRIGHT UP YOUR—“_

 _End of message. To replay, press one. To save for later, press two._

Mycroft chuckled to himself as he pressed two and tucked his mobile away. Suddenly, the last two days of his trip seemed as though they might be more tolerable.


	2. Nearest to My Heart

Mycroft knew that Lestrade would be at his own flat. Though they both tended to spend their nights at Mycroft’s home, Lestrade insisted on keeping his flat for practical purposes; some nights after a long day at work, making the drive to Mycroft’s seemed too much. That, and Mycroft knew very well that staying in the home alone was horrifyingly lonesome.

So instead of going to his own home, he had his driver drop him off at Lestrade’s flat. It was an ungodly hour of the morning, nearing on three, and though he knew that Lestrade would have to wake to go to work in just three short hours, the idea of waiting until the following evening to see the DI was one that Mycroft found dissatisfying.

He let himself into the flat with the key Lestrade had given him, moving as quietly as possible. The bedroom was dark and empty, the bed unslept in. Mycroft clucked his tongue and shook his head. He knew precisely where his inspector was. Moving silently down the hall, he brought himself before the last door on the right. Gently easing the door open presented him with the sight he knew he’d find. Holed up in his home office, Lestrade had obviously fallen asleep in the middle of the work he’d been conducting. Slipping inside, he moved to the back of the chair and peered over the slumbering man’s shoulder at what he’d been working on.

“Always the last to leave and then what do you do? Come home and work. Really, Gregory,” he murmured, smoothing down the DI’s untamable, graying hair. As usual, the hairs were as stubborn as the man they belonged to and would have none of his fussing. With a smile, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to Lestrade’s temple before speaking into his ear. “Come to bed.”

That seemed to rouse the man, as he stirred and stretched and cast his bleary-eyed gaze on Mycroft as he scrubbed a hand over his face.

“You’re home,” he mumbled, rising slowly after taking the hand Mycroft offered him.

“Indeed. Though I loathe to disturb you, I believe your neck will thank me later,” Mycroft answered. “Now, let’s get you to bed.”

“Wait,” Lestrade answered, groggily taking hold of the taller man’s lapels and pulling him down until their lips met. He drew back, releasing Mycroft. “Welcome home.”

Mycroft rested his hands on Lestrade’s hips for a moment, snatching the shorter man’s lips up in an answering kiss. _Home._ The concept had never been one he’d paid a great deal of attention to. He came and went as his job dictated, not giving the details of it any true thought. Since he’d met Lestrade, however, that had changed. Things he’d previously put beneath him—loneliness, longing, even love—were suddenly a large part of his life. Being away from London now had meaning, because being away from London meant being away from Lestrade. Their relationship had instilled in him an understanding that ‘home’ was not always a place. Sometimes it was a frame of mind. Or a person.

He drew back with a smile, his thumbs rubbing circles into the DI’s hipbones. “Thank you. Now, honestly, let’s get you to bed.”

“Cheeky.”

Lestrade turned out the light, casting the study into the same darkness that permeated the rest of the flat, and reached until he found Mycroft’s hand. It was only a brief moment between that and the time it took for Mycroft’s fingers to fit in the spaces between his own. They walked silently out of the study and down the hall, not needing light to guide their way to Lestrade’s bedroom. It was there that they parted and Mycroft could hear that his partner had dropped onto the mattress without bothering to change into sleepwear. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided that removing his jacket, tie, belt, and waistcoat would do. He slid beneath the covers, chuckling as a possessive arm was immediately thrown over his waist.

They drew closer together, Mycroft’s arm draping over Lestrade’s shoulders so that they were nearly chest to chest.

“Missed you,” Lestrade said—though it came out as more of a sigh—with his face pressed into Mycroft’s shoulder.

“I missed you as well. Very much so,” Mycroft admitted. He loved when Lestrade was like this. True, he hated seeing the man exhausted, but it fostered the sleepy, affectionate side of the DI that he couldn’t seem to get enough of. Simply watching him fall asleep, having him close, they were things Mycroft hadn’t known he wanted, or needed, until recently. “Your message helped.”

He almost laughed at the way Lestrade groaned into his shirt. “’msorry ‘bout that. Wasn’t expecting Sherlock’n’all that… anyway. Wasn’t that great an idea.”

“Oh, but it was.”

“Only seemed like it at the time.”

“It was just what I needed. Truly,” Mycroft assured him. “I was… having a difficult time of things.”

That was all that was needed to rouse Lestrade from his sleepy state. He leaned on his elbow, levering himself up.

“Why? What happened?” he demanded.

“Gregory, calm yourself. It was simply a migraine, nothing more. Negotiations were difficult and I mistakenly neglected to take care of it sooner, that’s all,” Mycroft explained.

Lestrade cast a dubious eye over him. “I thought you seemed off. You’re still not feeling right, are you?”

“Not… entirely, no,” Mycroft admitted slowly. “But I have greatly improved since arriving home.”

“Please tell me you’ve taken the day off tomorrow,” Lestrade said hopefully.

“I will be working from home,” Mycroft answered. “Which is close enough.”

“Good. Now, what can I do to help?” Lestrade asked.

“What you can do is sleep. Here. Beside me,” Mycroft said. “That is all I require.”

“On the condition that you go to sleep, too,” Lestrade countered, laying himself back down onto his pillow and tucking himself close to the taller man once more.

“Believe me when I say I had no intention of doing anything else,” Mycroft hummed.

Mycroft knew that it took approximately fourteen minutes for the adult male to fall asleep. He supposed it must have been close to twelve minutes since they’d both determined to sleep. It was warm—that kind of fuzzy warmth that seems to reach every part of you—with the two of them wrapped in each other’s arms beneath the covers. His mind was floating in that cozy sea of semi-awareness that came just before sleep.

“I love you.”

The words had been nearly silent, uttered in a soft, breathy mumble. He was just awake enough to register them and the pleasant tug they made at his heart. It didn’t matter that Lestrade was now asleep, curled against him like he wouldn’t let go for all the world. It didn’t matter that Lestrade wouldn’t hear his reply. He was home.

“I love you, too, dearest.”

The waking world would greet them in a few short hours, but for the time being, it didn’t matter. There, in the dark, in the quiet, all that mattered was the heart beating next to his own, until sleep claimed him as well.


End file.
